Only Do It For The Scars And Stories, Not The Fame
by xLabRatx
Summary: A collection of drabbles and oneshots written for various reasons. Chapter Seven: Les Hashey reflects on Operation Market Garden.
1. The Spaghetti Saga

One week back in May (I think) I stayed home from school for a few days. I really had nothing to do but watch Band of Brothers and go on Livejournal. I became hooked on the fanfiction challenge comunities. I joined a bunch of them. So this is a place for me to post all those little one-shots. It makes a lot more sense than posting them all seperately. The rating is just a precaution. All the posts have their own rating at the beginning.

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Disclaimer: Band of Brothers is owned by HBO and Steven Spielberg. Band of Brothers is based on real events and real people.In no way does this storyrepresent real life.I greatly respect the men of Easy Company for what they did, they are my heroes. And I do not mean any disrespect to them.  
I would also like to say that the title of this whole thing came from the song "Champagne for my Real Friends, Real Pain for my Sham Friends" by Fall Out Boy. "We only do it for the scars and stories, not the fame." I just thought the quote fit the men of Easy Company, 'cause they didn't do it for the fame or money. They refuse to call themselves heros. But they are!

Thank you Darky! My brilliant editor! xoxo!

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So anyway, this first one is called "The Spaghetti Saga". It ate my brain for about a week before I actually wrote it down. Plot Bunnies do that you know. They nibble.  
Summary: Skip Muck enjoys scaring the replacements.  
Characters: Skip Muck, Alex Penkala, Don Malarkey (other mentioned in passing)  
Rating: PG-13 (for swearing and smoking)  
Word Count: 657  
Classes Ignored to Work on This: Geometry, American Lit.  
Challenges: Drabbles100  
A/N: A bit of Muck/Penkala friendship at the end. No slash.

**The Spaghetti Saga**

"Spaghetti." Muck told them suddenly, he took a long drag on the cigarette between his fingers. The replacements stared at him like he was crazy. Penkala rolled his eyes. Malarkey sniggered at the confused look on their young faces. Muck just exhaled a puff of gray smoke and kept on talking.

"If you asked any one of these guys," he slowly pointed around the room for dramatic effect. "what their least favorite food is, that's what they'd tell you."

"Why?" asked one of the replacements.

Muck raised his eyebrows and sucked another breath through his cigarette.

"I'm glad you asked," he said, smirking devilishly.

"Jesus Skip," Penkala interrupted. "They don't need to hear the story." He took the cigarette away from Muck and placed it between his lips.

"Sure they do!" Muck retorted, snatching it back.

"Hey!" Penkala reached around Muck's back and grabbed the cigarette behind his ear. "Malark, give me a light," he said, turning to his left, setting the cigarette between his lips. Malarkey dug his lighter out of his pocket and flicked it open.

"Here ya go Penk!" he said, holding up the flame. While tipping his chair back on its hind legs, Muck reached around Penkala and swatted Malarkey's shoulder.

"God Don, shut up and let me tell the damn story!"

Penkala started to thank Malarkey but he elbowed him in the ribs.

"Yeah Penk, shut up and let him tell the damn story!"

Muck grinned.

"Thank you Don!" He turned back to the replacements. "As I was saying, our first C.O., Sobel, was real full of himself. Easy Company was his company, and under his command, we would be the best company in the whole goddamn regiment." At the sound of their former C.O.'s name many of the men at the surrounding tables turned to listen, childish grins played across their features.

"But you know, I think he did a damn good job!" Malarkey interrupted loudly. Penkala chuckled and smirked. Muck smiled again. The others grunted approvingly, banging on the tables. Webster raised his glass.

"Three miles up, three miles down," Liebgott joked, clinking his glass against Webster's. Shouts of "Currahee!" erupted around the room.

"Alright, alright! Calm down!" Muck tried to get everyone to quiet down. When he was unsuccessful, he gave Luz a look that clearly said, "Help me!"

"Hey! Come on guys! Let the man talk!" Luz hollered. Everyone quieted back down again, eager for the Spaghetti Saga to be dictated. Even the Toccoa men seemed interested in hearing the story.

"Anyway, Sobel was a real hard ass. He would make us run up this mountain, Currahee, every day. Now, right after Sobel was made captain, I think he thought he'd test his power, show us whose boss. He made Winters Mess Officer for, what, two weeks?" Muck turned toward the Toccoa men. A few of them nodded.

"Sobel told Winters that we were going to have an afternoon of 'classroom instruction' because of rain."

Penkala snorted.

"Yeah, right."

"So, Winters made spaghetti."

Several of the men groaned, their stomachs remembered it as if it were yesterday.

"That crap was not spaghetti!" Perconte argued.

"Well whatever it was, it was the best food we'd had in months. So we, naturally, stuffed our faces. Once everyone was sitting down, eating, Sobel bursts in. 'Lectures are canceled, Easy Company is running up Currahee!'"

The replacements stared at Muck, wide-eyed.

"That bastard."

Malarkey chuckled.

"You got that right."

"All the guys were puking their guts out," Penkala said with a smirk.

"Yeah, I seem to remember you being one of the worst Penk!" Muck said loudly, prodding his shoulder. Penkala glared at him. The guys laughed.

Everyone started talking amongst themselves again, joking and reminiscing. Penkala sucked on the end of his cigarette, staring into space. Muck put his arm around him.

"You know I tease 'cause I love ya Penk!"

Penkala gave Muck his trademark half smile.

"Yeah, I know."

---

Next Instalment: Malarkey's curiosity gets him in a **load** of trouble!


	2. Curiosity Killed The Sgt

Woohoo! School's out! I can actually post stuff now!

Title: Curisoity Killed The Sergeant (Well...Almost)  
Summary: Malarkey's curiosity gets the better of him, and nearly gets him killed.  
Characters: Don Malarkey, and a slash pairing. Not saying who! But it's not who you think!  
Rating: R (boy snogging and language)  
Word Count: 309  
Challenges: Drabbles100, 7snogs, 5povs  
A/N: Yeah, kinda random idea I came up with outta nowhere... I have written the title so many times! I don't think I'll ever misspell _sergeant_ again!

**Curiosity Killed The Sergeant (Well...Almost)**

Malarkey sprinted up the rickety stairs of the Dutch farmhouse that 2nd platoon called home. When he reached the second floor he looked up and down the hallway.

"Skip! Penk!" he called. "This house is only so big, how the hell can they just disappear?" The house _was_ small, and his best friends were nowhere to be found.

There was a creak somewhere to his left. He looked back in that direction. All the doors down that way were closed. The rooms should have been empty; most of 2nd platoon was outside. There was another creak followed by a soft moan. Malarkey's curiosity got the better of him. He crept slowly down the hall. When he found the right door, he pressed his ear against the wood. He could hear two people breathing heavily. His hand grasped the cold door handle. He took a deep breath before turning it and pushing the door open a bit.

It was the strangest sight Malarkey had ever seen. Scrawny, lanky Joe Liebgott had the shorter, slightly stockier David Webster pinned down on the bed. Liebgott seemed to be trying to see how far he could stick his tongue into Webster's mouth without either of them choking. Webster's khaki O.D. jacket had been tossed aside, as had Liebgott's.

Webster heard the door open and he looked up.

"Fuck!" he hissed, pushing Liebgott off him. As he rolled onto the bed, Liebgott followed Webster's gaze.

"Fuck!" he echoed.

Malarkey felt his ears turning red.

"Hey guys…" he said nervously, glancing from Webster to Liebgott, who looked murderous.

"I'll just go now…"

Malarkey turned and bolted. He did not think he had ever run that fast in his life.

"Malarkey! Get your ass back here!" Liebgott yelled threateningly.

Malarkey did not stop running until he got to the barn where, it turns out, Muck and Penkala had been sitting the whole time.

---

Next chapter: SEQUEL! Malarkey is an idiot! (But we all love him!)


	3. Satisfaction Brought Him Back

Since everyone loved the first one so much...

Title: But Satisfaction Brought Him Back (Well...Kinda)  
Summary: Malarkey didn't learn his lesson. Sequel to _Curiosity Killed The Sergeant (Well...Almost)._  
Characters: Don Malarkey and another slash pairing. I'm not telling!  
Rating: R (a little bit more than boy snogging, not too descriptive)  
Word Count: 342  
Chalenges: drabbles100  
A/N: If you didn't like the last one, you won't like this one. It's a bit more smutty.

**But Satisfaction Brought Him Back (Well…Kinda)**

Malarkey was finally starting to get over the shock of seeing Liebgott and Webster in bed. About two weeks had passed, taking Liebgott's death threats with them. Webster had been shot in the leg and taken off the line. Liebgott had been hit too, but he was still there. With Webster gone he was a loose cannon, everyone tended to give him a wide berth whenever possible.  
Malarkey said that he had learned from his experience. He vowed to Muck and Penkala that he would never make the same mistake again.

Yet here he was again, creeping down a dimly lit hallway in Battalion CP. He heard groaning and heavy breathing coming from the other side of the door. As he reached for the doorknob he told himself that he shouldn't, especially after what happened last time. But the logical part of his brain did not seem to be in control of his body. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open just enough to stick his head in. The minute he had, he wished he could take it back.

He did not know which was worse, Liebgott and Webster, or what he was seeing now.

Captain Nixon was in the position Liebgott had been in, and pinned underneath him was Captain Winters. Nixon's hand had strayed down the front of the redhead's pants.

This all took a few seconds to register in Malarkey's head. Neither of the captains had noticed him, until he opened his mouth.

"Well fuck me up the ass sideways!" he cried sarcastically, throwing his hand up in the air. The officers looked up at him, startled. Winters and Nixon had of course heard about Malarkey's last adventure. He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Well that was appropriate," Nixon said with a smirk.

Malarkey returned to the 2nd platoon farmhouse in a daze. Muck and Penkala stared at him curiously. Finally Muck spoke up.

"Well, you know what they say Malark...'Curiosity killed the cat.' Or at least traumatized it."

"Shut up Muck!"


	4. Passing The Time

Title: Passing The Time  
Summary: Skinny reflects on the flight to Normandy on D-Day.  
Characters: Wayne "Skinny" Sisk  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: 244  
Challenges: Drabbles100  
A/N: Told from Skinny's pov. I don't know what it is about this kid... He seems to like me...

**Passing The Time**

On the plane to Normandy I discovered the true meaning of the word _nerves_. I think the only thing that kept me somewhat sane was the constant clicking and snapping of my lighter. I'd flip it open and closed. Sometimes I'd light it, others I'd just run my thumb over the wheel. I never burned anything. There was really nothing _to_ burn. I'd never lit a cigarette in my life and I sure as hell wasn't gonna start then.

I kept glancing at my watch too, no idea why. I think it had something to do with those airsickness pills. Eventually I got so fed up with it, I called out "Does anybody here wanna buy a good watch?" That got a laugh out of the guys, well, the ones who hadn't fallen asleep. None of them realized I was being serious.

As I looked around the plane I noticed that a lot of the guys had these nervous habits. They smoked, chewed gum, gnawed on their fingernails, drummed their fingers on whatever they could find, fidgeted with their harnesses. One or two of the guys drove us all crazy with those plastic crickets they gave us.

And a lot of them prayed. Their fingers were tightly wound about crosses and rosaries as they murmured under their breath. I always thought that it was pointless. Sure, I went to church and all, but what's God gonna do out here? I mean, this is hell.


	5. I'm Burning

Sorry I haven't updated in a while! I was on vacation in Michigan. And then I came back and everything was all hectic. So, here is another Skinny fic!

Title: I'm Burning and I'm Blacking my Lungs"  
Summary: George tries to get Skinny to smoke a cigarette.  
Characters: Wayne "Skinny" Sisk, George Luz  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: 331  
Challenges: Drabbles100  
A/N: Another one from Skinny's pov. I don't know what it is about this kid... He seems to like me... The title comes from the song _London Beckoned Songs About Money Written By Machines_ by Panic! at the Disco. It wasn't untill after I posted this fic on LJ that I learned that in the 40's people did not know that smoking could kill you. They thought it was perfectly healthy. So there is really no point to this fic, and my facts are off, but I like it anyway.

"Aw, come on Skinny!"

I stared at the pack of Lucky Strikes that was being waved in front of my face, and then back at the man who was holding them, George Luz. I flipped open my lighter and absently ran my thumb across the wheel.

"No George." I told him firmly, closing the lighter with a sharp snap.

It seemed to be George's dream to see every man in Easy smoke at least one cigarette. Since June I had been his project. He kept telling me how stubborn I was, but he refused to give up.

On this particular night I made the mistake of going to the pub and sitting alone. George came sauntering in, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He spotted me in the corner and swooped down.

So there I was getting a pack of smokes shoved in my face once more. Not only that, but they were smokes that George and Lieutenant Compton had conned out of some of the replacements, and a very bitter Joe Toye.

"You gotta try it once in your life!" I swear, some of these guys are obsessed with killing people. Just not in the traditional sense.

I shook my head, stuffing my lighter in my pocket. The second the cold metal left my hand, I wanted it back. I took it out again, turning it over in my hand. George took this as a sign.

"You don't wanna die without trying a smoke do ya?" I could have laughed at the irony. _Well George, I don't exactly want to die from smoking either!_

I sighed, I knew he was never going to leave me alone. George Luz was just as much of a stubborn ass as I was.

I flipped open my lighter again. My thumb ran over the wheel, putting pressure on it until it clicked and a small orange flame burst out.

I looked up at George, the flame flirting and dancing before us.

"Oh what the hell?"

Next instalment: Either Luz and Malarkey duke it out over a few smokes.  
**OR **  
We alllearn why Welsh tells George "No playing grab fanny with the man in front of you Luz!"  
(or maybe something else, depends on how my muse feels...)


	6. Jolly Old Saint Luz

Yeah, it was brought to my attention by Wesker888 that I haven't posted anything in AGES. I feel bad because I've had a lot of these next few drabbles just sitting around for a looong time. So yeah. Forgive me?

Title: Jolly Old Sait Luz  
Summary: "Gotta thank jolly old Saint luz!" Luz and Malarkey argue about a few smokes.  
Characters: George Luz, Don Malarkey  
Rating: PG (a few baby swears)  
Word Count: 130  
Classes Ignored to Work on This: None. Strangely enough.  
A/N: Set during Bastogne. All dialogue. I dunno... I kept trying to write an actual drabble, but my muse kept coming back to this. I think it's more fun to imagine what their faces are doing.

**Jolly Old Saint Luz**

Oh, c'mon Luz!

I said no!

But you gotta have somethin'!

Well I don't!

Luz, its Christmas!

I'm sorry Don, I got nothin'.

Please? Just _two_ smokes?

Goddammit Malarkey! Nobody's got food or ammo. Doc's got about three syrettes of morphine! So why in hell do you think I got smokes?!

God, I don't… but it's Christmas George!

I don't care! Get it through your thick head: I got _nothin'_!

But…

Why are you so set on this?

We've been living in hell these past two weeks. I figured the least I could do is get some decent smokes for my best friends _on Christmas_!

…

Luz?

Alright fine! Those are my last three Luckies! You better not waste 'em!

I love you George!

... Don't _ever_ say that again!

---

Next time:  
More older stuffs. Muck and Penkala friendship.


	7. Les Hashey

Haven't updated in a while, sorry, I've been busy. But here's a new chapter with an old drabble...

Title: Les Hashey  
Summary: "Maybe it wasn't him as a person; maybe Holland just had it in for him. Either way, it should have been him, not Miller."  
Characters: Mostly Les Hashey. With Miller, Garcia, Cobb, Peacock, Dukeman, and Hoobler.  
Rating: PG-13 ish...  
Word Count: 921  
Classes Ignored to Work on This: Um... Wrote this a while ago... Probably Algebra II.  
A/N: Written for _Berlin By Christmas_ on lj. 2006. For jbslasher. And it didn't have a title back then, either.

**Les Hashey**

Hashey sat in the back of the truck, stunned. He watched the faces of the guys around him and saw some of the same kinds of expressions on all of their faces. Webster was shakily wiping his hand on his pants, over and over again, adding a red stain to all the green and brown ones. Hashey didn't think he wanted to know whose blood it was. Peacock looked like he was about to cry, his hands folded under his chin in a prayerful manner. Their first time out and their C.O. looked like he was scared out of his fucking mind. Dukeman _was_ crying, his hands were pulled up to his mouth. He had been biting his lip so hard it started to bleed, a small trickle of blood running down his chin. Hashey looked away, he couldn't stand the sight of blood anymore. Next to him he could feel Garcia tugging on the sleeve of his jacket, fighting back his own tears. He occupied himself with what ever he could, trying to keep his mind off of what he had seen.

Cobb was hunched over, a sick look on his face, barely disguised beneath all the dirt and paint. Ramirez had long since given up on trying to comfort him. He wasn't all that talkative now that he was sober, was he? Hashey hoped he felt sorry. He hoped that Cobb was miserable. Miller was dead. It wasn't Cobb's fault, no one said that. But he had been such an ass to the kid, and now he was gone.

They all remembered the night Cobb came up to Miller in the pub and started bugging him about the Unit Citation he wore proudly on his chest. Miller would never try to mislead anyone into thinking he had been in Normandy, and fought there. But he was proud – they all were – to be placed in a unit that already had such a great reputation. Miller looked up to the guys from Toccoa, maybe even a little too much. Hashey could still smell the alcohol on Cobb's breath. Everyone around them stopped what they were doing to listen to what was going on. The tension was so thick you could taste it. Hoobler had tried to step in, tried to get Cobb to back off. But if one of the Toccoa guys told Miller to do something, he was going to do it, to impress them. Just like he was when he…

Why did it have to be him? Miller was the youngest of the group of replacements, and he probably had the most determination as a soldier. Hashey was the one who was always screwing up. Even in basic training, he knew he wasn't cut out for the Army. But he did it anyway. He felt he had to. Once he got the hang of it, he got better. Miller was always together, always knew what was going on. He may not have been the best soldier, but he was reliable, and determined. Hashey had so many mess-ups going for him, he couldn't even keep track anymore.

For instance, the day they jumped into Holland he couldn't get his harness off. And it was one of the new quick-release harnesses. Then the next day when they were on the road, he spotted a Kraut, stopped dead in the middle of the road and tried to shoot him. Then his damn rifle jammed. That was brand new too. Maybe it wasn't him as a person; maybe Holland just had it in for him. Either way, it should have been him, not Miller.

Hashey hadn't even fired a shot in that battle. It was a huge firefight, and he hadn't even contributed a round. Miller had stopped, jumped down into that trench to give the retreating guys cover. He hadn't even thought about it, he just did it. Hashey hadn't even noticed that he had fallen behind at first. By the time he had, it was too late. Hashey turned around just in time to see that section of the trench go up in a shower of dirt. He remembered the strange ringing in his ears afterward. What he couldn't remember was running back toward the trench. Or, what was left of it. Then he saw Miller's body. That was a sight he didn't think he would ever be able to forget.

Hashey felt guilty, just leaving Miller there, but he knew there was nothing that could be done. Garcia had pulled him away, reminding him of the problem at hand. But once they were in the truck, retreating, Hashey could do nothing else but think, replay what had happened in his head, trying to fill in the gaps. Next to him, Garcia was muttering something to himself in Spanish. Hashey could hear the slight quiver in his voice, Garcia was crying too. And now, so was he, Hashey realized as he felt the warm drops rolling down his cheeks. He slouched back in his seat, wiping his nose on his sleeve, staring across the truck at Cobb. He looked up at Hashey, they had both been through the same things. They understood each other now, somehow. Hashey didn't have to fight for respect anymore, he had it.

He was thankful he was still alive, and sad that Miller was not. Little did he know that, in a few months' time, he would be sitting next to Garcia in a cold, damp foxhole, envying Miller. Wishing that it had been him instead.


End file.
